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Monday, July 21, 2014

I Should Stick to Writing by Jenny Gardiner

I
hate that I'm an arts ignoramus. I wish I were that person who could steep
myself in a classical music concert and not want to flee for the exit doors
(although in truth, I get tired of even a normal concert after an hour or so and
want to be done with that as well). Or trot out to the ballet and really absorb the beauty before
my eyes, rather than fidgeting or clock-watching. But try as I might, I just
don't tend to gravitate toward fine art. I guess I'm a déclassé slob.

I'm
ashamed to admit the extent of my fine arts education (or at least that which
imprinted in the haze of my brain) sprung from dubious sources. For painting, the
board game Masterpiece was my
instructor. Yep, my grasp of the Dutch Masters ran to the famed Rembrandt rendering
of an old man who looks like an old woman with a feather in his/her cap. American
classics? That celebrated all-night diner oil painting by Edward Hopper. I was particularly
proud of myself when I recently recognized a spoof of Hopper's painting in the
window of an alternative art gallery in Philadelphia. And to think I owe it all
to Masterpiece creators, Parker
Brothers!

My
appreciation of classical music and opera begins and ends pretty much at the
Barber of Seville (make that Rabbit
of Seville; thanks, Bugs Bunny). To be fair, I could throw in Elmer Fudd's
Wagnerian masterpiece, "Kill the Wabbit!", just to put a finer point
on that bonanza of childhood musical education. Likely my aversion toward
classical music was further enhanced by my mother and her husband bombarding us
with Pachebel's Canon till our ears practically bled. Gimme Bugs Bunny any day
over that! In the immortal words of boxer Roberto Durán, no mas!

The
first time I traveled to Italy we hired a tour guide to show us around Florence
for a few hours. The guide, an American ex-pat, had majored in Art History
during college in the States, and immersed herself in glorious Renaissance art
while studying abroad, loving the culture so much she stayed. I was amazed at
the breadth of her knowledge and even more so the depth of her passion for the
subject matter — a double whammy of art and
history zeal. Damn! When I was 18 years old, it would not have dawned on me to
consider studying art. I thought I needed to pursue an area of study that would
lead to a steady income (though recognize in hindsight that journalism didn't made
so much sense in that endeavor). But art? I can't even doodle well! Why would I
bother?

Yes,
I admit it: I'm a cultural troglodyte.

I
don't doubt that the manner in which history and art are taught contribute to
one's ability to ingest it. I had a peculiar professor in a mandatory European
history class during college who felt compelled to act out the high (or low)
points of a thousand years of Europe, taking on often many roles in each class.
I suppose there are those who were on board with it; I just thought it was a weird
distraction.

Yet
when I've toured historical venues over the years, I find it most interesting
to learn about day-to-day life from so long ago — in some way I can better relate
to that versus what Charlemagne was up to on his horse. Perhaps if I had approached
the study of history and art from a plebian perspective, it would have struck a
more familiar nerve, instead of merely ringing hollow. Better yet, perhaps an
historical People Magazine-style education would have done it: celebrity gossip
from the Middle Ages! Who's cheating on
whom! What's popular this week in illuminated manuscripts and Gregorian Chants!

Drats.
Where my interest thrives in useless pop culture, it plummets when it comes to cultured culture.

One
thing I think would have helped immensely is emphasizing the whole notion of history
being doomed to repeat itself. The older I get the more I see this again and
again, and from this perspective it is ingrained into my brain more readily. It
seems not a day goes by when that adage isn't reinforced in the news (Soviets
invade Afghanistan; Soviets fail in Afghanistan. America invades Iraq; well,
you know the drill.)

Perhaps
I'm taking baby steps toward acquiring some cultural enlightenment. Ish. Making a foray into a classier
classicism, if you could dare call it that (granted it was by accident, but
whatever works). Several weeks ago we purchased tickets to see Ben Folds in
concert at Wolf Trap Farm Park. Folds is a musical genius whose earlier foray
into contemporary music featured profanity-laced lyrics that are largely
unprintable. He's since evolved, even launching the popular a capella show Sing Off, with nary an f-bomb.

Too
late I realized Folds was performing with the National Symphony Orchestra,
which I figured meant I'd be asleep in ten minutes once under the influence of
the dulcet strains of the violin section. One person in our group —
perhaps influenced by an upbringing devoid of musical culture (my bad!) — didn't
care for the symphonic component of the program, But most unexpectedly, I was quite
mesmerized by the merging of disparate musical genres in such a beautiful way.
And when he impulsively composed an orchestral piece on the spot, teaching
each part section by section, well, wow. It helped me to really appreciate how
disparate instruments (and their masters) get along for the greater good of the
group. It gives you a sense of comfort in this sometimes very dark world that
ultimately people can work together to achieve something bigger than themselves
as individuals.

Maybe
it's never too late to start with this newfound appreciation for the arts.
Perhaps in addition to doing a bike or walking tour in the next city I visit,
I'll venture into the museum as well. Certainly if they have air conditioning.
And maybe a lovely little café. Baby steps, people.

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